Blind Trust
by Echoing Fantasy
Summary: For the AC Kink Meme. Prompt was: Pet fic where Assassin of choice is likened to an actual bird of prey. Shaun seeks to help Desmond cope with the newly volatile Bleeding Effect using a rather curious method.


_Blind Trust_

The end of the world is hardly something to sneeze over. Shaun knows this all too well, so he can understand why William is snappish and snarly nowadays, pushing Desmond further and further into the Animus, urging him to go further into the memories of the Kenway family in a desperate bid to find a solution to fight off Juno's conquest. But at the same time, Shaun sees that getting upset over every little failure will not help things; it is why he turns his attitude from Desmond to William on days when the older man lets loose on his son, calling him a failure and a fool for believing lies that they had all clung to. It is why he makes tea with sleeping drugs for Desmond, and lets him eat the last yoghurt he has in the fridge, even though they can't get anymore and it's his favorite. He lets him do all these things because unlike William, who claims to be working for the good of everyone, he can see the cracks in Desmond's soul, and it hurts him to think the man came back to life just for this.

When Desmond suffers under the Bleeding Effect, which is no longer simple snippets of everyday conversations but volatile outbursts that result in thrown objects and somebody's blood on the floor, Shaun finds himself reminded of his younger days - Desmond reminds him a lot of a hawk he used to train. It was a spiteful little creature, all temper and heat beneath its fuzzy body, eyes wide with paranoia and fear and distrust. Only one person could ever hold him without endangering his life, and that was an old man that died not long after Shaun arrived. The bird was put away because it became too dangerous to use anymore - and that was when Shaun had picked it up. He suffered the daily scratches of feeding it, holding it, cleaning it, hooding and jessing it and even flying it. The bird didn't ask for those things, but they were given all the same because Shaun saw so easily that the bird had been forgotten by everyone else, and it would have lived in its cage until it died if he hadn't done something.

He wants to help Desmond like he helped the bird before it died. He wants to heal the wounds caused by those around him, help him find some semblance of peace with his life, even if it's only for an hour a day. Rebecca seems to understand what he wants - she's heard enough stories about his hawk to know how alike the two are, which is probably why she purchases the kip leather and the sewing kit, and starts standing up to William like Shaun is doing. She cuts the sessions shorter, helps him walk when his feet won't move, tries to keep him happy. She _understands_, Shaun thinks as he pulls the leather from the box in the back of the warehouse, and that is enough for now.

Desmond is all talons and razor-sharp temper when roused, but that temper can be quieted, muted beneath the dark comfort of the hood. One made just for Desmond, shaped perfectly to help him heal. Shaun is careful when he makes it, shaping it around Desmond's head when he's in the Animus and William is out of the room. It takes five days to make it, and an additional two days for Shaun to think of a safe way to introduce Desmond to it without encountering his temper. The man is walking on the edge of a knife every day now, lingering between what little sanity remains in him and the destruction caused by the Bleeding Effect. A single word can send him either way; Shaun doesn't intend to be the cause of his second death.

So he waits until Desmond is in his room, comfortable and relatively tired, before carefully approaching him, hood hidden behind his back. "Desmond?"

Tired eyes find his. "What do you want, Shaun." It's no longer a question. It stopped being so a while back; around the time William _forced_ his son into the Animus after his death to relieve Edward's memories.

Shaun is careful to keep his distance, posture as non-threatening as possible. "I'm just checking up on you. Are you hungry? Thirsty? I know Rebecca got a thing of your favorite soda in there..." He trails off as Desmond shakes his head, closing his eyes and sighing.

"No thanks Shaun. I'm okay."

That's the opening Shaun's been looking so carefully for. He takes it. "Are you really so content being just _'okay'?_ Wouldn't you rather be _'better'?"_

Desmond's eyes open again, gold instead of brown, and Shaun is reminded of his first encounter with his hawk, the hard, unflinching glare that was leveled at him, much like the look Desmond is giving him now. "What are you babbling about, Hastings?"

He's losing his edge. He needs to explain quickly, before Desmond thinks this is all a joke and kicks him out. "I had a partner like you once, you know. Stubborn, fiercely independent, refused to be helped even when he needed it. Even when..." He hesitates, sadness washing over him, "Even when he was locked away because of that independence."

He has Desmond's attention again, the chilly gold shifting to a warmer brown. "What happened to him?"

"He eventually died. Gunshot wound. But I... I knew him long enough to help him. Heal him a little bit; at least I like to think so. I gave him a little bit of freedom, of choice before he died." Now his throat is clenching, and he needs to figure out where to go from here, how to get the hood from behind him to over Desmond's head without causing a third world war. "He wasn't human, but he was braver than anyone there at the time."

Desmond doesn't seem terribly surprised by the admission. "What was he then, if not human?"

"Hawk. Peregrine, if you must know."

The other man blinks at him, then smiles lazily, a sound coming out that isn't quite a chuckle. "Hate to break this to you Shaun, but I'm not a hawk. Just because my ancestors are named after hawks doesn't make _me_ one."

"I know," Shaun says, a brief tightness in his chest relieving itself. He's on the right path again. He just has to take this slowly. "But that doesn't mean the same methods won't work. You're both broken creatures, Desmond; no one will deny that. He was put away for being too vicious, and it's only a matter of time before they do the same to you as well."

Desmond does laugh here, although it doesn't sound right in the slightest. "You mean they haven't already? Damn."

The historian winces. He walked into that one. "You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

Ah, and there are the talons coming out in challenge. Shaun sighs, recalling how much those talons hurt. "Please Desmond. Let me help you."

For a long time, Desmond doesn't say anything. He doesn't deny he needs help, or try to push Shaun away, or even say that Shaun's playing a joke on him. He just leans his head back against his bed and stares at the ceiling. Shaun remains in place, knowing that patience is the answer. He needs to stay here until Desmond answers, or he'll never be able to help. If that means keeping William out until they're both at an agreement, then he'll do that.

Finally, Desmond answers, although it's not the one Shaun expects. "What did you do to help the hawk heal?"

Shaun answers without thinking. "I put a hood on him. A jess too."

"What, no bell?"

"No need. Besides, the sound irritated him."

"Mm, good call."

"Thank you."

More silence. Shaun no longer hides the hood behind him, letting it down by his side. Desmond eyes it cautiously, as if its a snake instead of a couple of simple pieces of leather sewn together. When he sits up and gestures of Shaun to move closer, the historian does so. Maybe they can do this after all, he thinks.

But suddenly Desmond freezes up, eyes widening, mouth opening-

_"Federico? Che ci fai qui?"_

-and Shaun's insides freeze.

The Bleeding Effect. Not now. This _can't_ be happening. _**Not now.  
**_  
As carefully as he can, he replies, _"Io non sono Federico."_

Desmond/Ezio's eyes widen, panic appearing. He backs up, scrambling over the bed into a corner, fingers digging into the pillows_. "Chi sei, allora? Che cosa hai fatto con Federico?"_ Panic is setting in rapidly now, the duo continuing to demand Shaun's identity as his eyes flash from gold to brown to green back to gold-

Shaun doesn't think. He lunges, hood snapping up and over Desmond's head. The two cry out, voices intermingling, fingers reaching up to disarm Shaun, but he's got a tight hold on the hood and refusing to let go, leaning all his weight onto the other body, forcing it downwards, pushing the hands away and keeping the hood in place_. This has to work_; he thinks fiercely, gritting his teeth as screams for blood assault his ears. It _has_ to work, because if it doesn't it means Desmond will die a dog's death, a death he _does not_ deserve, and it will be _all Shaun's fault._

Once Desmond/Ezio's hands are trapped, Shaun begins to murmur and click and croon quietly, just like he did before, working on soothing the frayed nerves and calming the bout of rage before it can escalate any further. His words are not clear; he says whatever comes first, gently reaching his fingers under Desmond's chin to stroke his throat, just like he would a trained bird. The man stiffens but stops talking, muscles tightening as his head tips ever-so-slightly to the side, as if fighting to better hear the words. After a moment he relaxes, his arms going slack. Not wasting a chance, Shaun carefully takes the jess he has in his back pocket and ties one around each of Desmond's wrists, double knotting it to prevent him from getting it off. He keeps murmuring as he gets off the bed, carefully tugging on the jess to see if Desmond will comply.

To Shaun's happiness, he does, leaning forward a bit as if to follow Shaun. His head is still cocked, the rest of his tension draining away with every moment that passes. Before long he is completely limp, lying against the bed and murmuring back in a foreign language that eventually transforms into English as the last of the Bleeding fades away, leaving the room intact, and Shaun unharmed.

Desmond comes to his senses before long, shaking his head and then frowning when he realizes it's covered. Carefully he reaches up and feels the hood, and then the jess on each wrist. "Shaun...?"

"Yes Desmond?"

"You aren't dead, are you?"

"No. And the room is the same as it was before. Ezio calmed down, and so have you."

"Oh. Then does that mean...?"

"Yes. I'd say we've found a cure for your Bleeding Effect."

* * *

It's been four long days since Shaun first put the hood over Desmond's eyes and jessed his wrists, shutting the Bleeding Effect down in one fell swoop. The historian expected things to become awkward not long after that, especially given Desmond's tendency to retreat mentally whenever he was put in a position where he himself was not in control. Not that Shaun could blame him of course - Shaun himself wasn't exactly fond of being put in situations like that either, but the difference was that Desmond used bluffs and threats to weasel his way out, whereas Shaun went with the most painless route, which was usually the truth.

A few precious minutes of calm and control could not wash away many weeks worth of biting words and sarcastic wit between the two of them. So really it was no surprise when Desmond did everything in his power to keep from talking or even looking at Shaun over the next few days. He threw the new found calm gifted by the hood into the Animus, dredging up weeks worth of Edward's seafaring memories in mere days; for once, William was blissfully silent during his exits. The Bleeding Effect seemed to fade away as well, although Shaun refused to forget it, opting to keep the hood in his desk during those precious hours Desmond spent in the Animus.

This turned out to be a wise decision when on the fifth day during the first break from the Animus, Desmond took two steps and suddenly gasped, wavering on his feet. His hands scrabbled for his arms, nails digging into flesh. "S-s-s-_sh-shaun..."_

"Desmond?!" Rebecca is up in a heartbeat, William behind her, both looking frightened and wary. Shaun realizes what's fixing to happen and doesn't even think about the consequences, ripping open his drawer with savage intent and taking the hood out, literally leaping over the desk as Desmond screams in a voice that is not his own, and snaps the hood over his eyes, tying the rawhide strips that make up the knots before the man can regain himself. Then he seizes hold of the jess on his wrists and waits. It doesn't take long for it to start.

Desmond isn't Ezio this time, but Altair, spitting out oaths of vengeance and loathing in words that sound ancient and as hot as the sun. He thrashes, twists and does everything he can to escape Shaun's grasp, but with the jess holding his wrists and Shaun holding the jess its impossible for him to do anything other than fight and swear. It isn't safe to attempt physical touch yet, so Shaun lets Desmond keep his distance, watching out of the corner of his eye as Rebecca's jaw slowly closes, eyes going bright with realization. William, however, is another story.

The look on his face is somewhere between disgust and fury. He watches, tight-lipped as Desmond settles down, twitching and growling threats at the air. When Shaun is sure he won't get bitten, he reaches out and gently pets Desmond's throat with the backs of his fingers, just like he did before, murmuring soft words and soothing the black rage within the mixed man. Altair is much more receptive than Ezio was, cocking his head back and forth and relaxing much sooner. When every muscle in the man's body is lax, Shaun lets go of the jess and stops petting. Sure enough, Desmond shakes his head and reaches up, touching the hood. "Shaun?" His voice is weak and raspy.

"I'm here, Desmond. Everyone's alright; just try to breath, okay?"

Rebecca reappears at Shaun's side with a glass of water, eying the hood with admiration. She pats the historian's shoulder before walking back towards William, taking one look at him and socking him in the shoulder. When he rounds on her, teeth bared and eyes lit with fury, she shakes her head firmly. Desmond sips the water gratefully, nearly drinking the entire glass before stopping. Shaun steps closer to remove the hood, but Desmond steps back. "Not yet," he says quietly, and Shaun leaves it at that.

Desmond keeps the hood on for the rest of the break, only removing it when he has to go back into the Animus. Shaun gives it to Rebecca, showing her how to knot the laces quickly if it should come to that, before leaving it to her and going to take a short breather in his room. Unfortunately, he isn't alone; William seems determined to come along. Shaun knows it won't be an easy conversation, but he intends to have it all the same.

The second the door is closed William rounds on him, paranoia and disgust making him an ugly man. "What sort of sick game are you playing, Hastings?"

Shaun doesn't bother holding back. Around Desmond he's always held back, but no more. He's tired of being told that what he's doing is wrong, that they don't have time for such silly games - Desmond is falling apart at the seams, and he and Rebecca seem to be the only ones that care. Once upon a time he respected this man, but now he just hates him. "Do me a favor William, and shut the bloody fuck up. You have no idea what I'm doing, and you've no right to judge me. For your information, its not a sick game-"

"Oh really? Then _pray tell_, what the hell _was_ that? Because when I see a much older man assault my son like he's some sort of... of... wild animal, certainly the first thing I'm going to think is that it's a sick game."

Shaun's teeth snap together in irritation. God save the Queen, this man was stupid. "Look you bloody wanker, Desmond is falling apart. The world as we know it is ending. And you are so far out of line, it's ridiculous. You claim to be an Assassin, doing things for the good of those around you, taking care of those you love and whatnot, and yet you constantly do nothing but piss and bitch and whine and moan about how things are not getting done fast enough. Desmond is a broken man you ignorant bastard, just like 16 was, and just like every other Subject that came before him was. And you expect him to be able to keep up with your demands and not snap?"

The words are coming thick and fast, rolled in Shaun's thick accent as he loses himself in the tirade that someone should have given to this arrogant bastard years ago. "The reason I put that hood on him is to offer relief. When the hood is on him, I can help him through the Bleeding Effects; I can help him gain a bit of peace. It's not much, especially considering what you're doing to help him, but by God and the Queen herself it's the only damned thing I've ever been able to do. You may be content to throw your son away once he's used up, but I'm not. And before you go proclaiming to all and sundry that this is the work of an Assassin, it's _not_. A true Assassin wouldn't force one of his brothers to live through this hell. I imagine that if Altair or even Ezio were still around, they'd have your head for being as cruel as you are. Hell, if it weren't for the fact that the Templars have us outnumbered enough, _I'd _take your bloody head!"

Shaun is not an angry man. He does have a temper though, one inherited down the line of his mother, who came from a long line of powerful Irish women. They may have migrated to English country, but that doesn't mean his temper isn't still as fearsome as his mother's was, or her mother before her. William is slowly going white, his own temper forgotten as Shaun snaps and snarls like a rabid dog. It feels good to get this out, Shaun thinks, and quickly checks himself as the reminder that Desmond is still in the Animus and may suffer another Bleed at any time surfaces. He needs to stay close until they get through this.

So he takes a deep breath and finishes the job. "Long story short William, I'm cleaning up the mess you and the damnable Templars made. And before you go thinking I'm imprisoning him for some sick fetish or game, think about how quickly he settled down under my touch compared to how he was before. The hood keeps him stable. It keeps him grounded. The jess keeps him from hurting himself, and the touches and words keep him from thinking he's Altair or Ezio. Together, it makes a perfect antidote for the poison inside him - a poison I intend to fully eliminate, regardless of whether you support me or not. Now if you'll excuse me, I believe I'm needed back in the Animus room."

And then, without waiting for a reply, he steps around William's frozen frame and disappears back into the living room, settling down at the computer to give instructions to Desmond, who seems to be in the middle of a fight with another ship.

Interesting stuff, that.

* * *

William doesn't bother Desmond after that. Even when he crashes the Jackdaw into port several times and loses synchronization because he's been shot and is bleeding out, the man doesn't say a word. He also doesn't look at Shaun or Rebecca, busying himself with documents Shaun never saw arrive. He's tempted to steal them and make sure William isn't selling them out to the Templars, but restrains himself. He has enough problems on his plate without worrying about what others are doing.

"Okay Desmond, let's call it a day. Good work out there today." Rebecca pats their boy on the back as he stumbles out of the Animus, and straight into Shaun, who takes shameless pleasure in the way Desmond leans into him now, trusting in his touch instead of flinching away. After a minute his confusion is gone and he's stepping back, Shaun reluctantly letting him go. His hawk has to fly sometimes, he supposes, but that doesn't mean he has to be happy about it.

They head back into the training room to let Desmond run off the last of Edward's energy from the fight (which Shaun recorded because quite frankly it was sheer brilliance on legs), the historian bringing along a small tray of food and the hood, which he hides. Desmond usually has anywhere between two to four Bleeds a day, and while he's only had one so far, it's better not to chance it. Desmond finally camps himself out on a beam, laying on his stomach with all four limbs draped over the sides of the wood like some abnormally large cat, staring down at Shaun calmly. Shaun stares right back, finding it easier to do so than before. "Are you planning on coming down here to eat at all?"

"I have a better idea," Desmond retorts, sound lazy and satisfied, "Why don't you come up here?"

Shaun blinks. "Do I look like an Assassin to you? Or a monkey? Don't answer that," he orders when Desmond smirks and opens his mouth. He snickers and settles back down, sighing.

"I'm serious Shaun, you should come up here. It's nice."

"And I'm serious, Desmond. I can't climb. You come down here and eat and then you can climb back up."

"But I'll be too full to climb after," Desmond whines, nevertheless starting to push himself off the beam, coming down box by box.

Shaun decides to make up for his lack of teasing and waves his hand dismissively. "Well maybe if you wouldn't eat quite so much every day, you wouldn't be so large around the waist, now would you?"

"Did you just call me fat?"

"Maybe I did. What are you going to do about it, large one?"

That starts a bicker fight that lasts the entirety of the meal and wrings a few laughs and smiles out of them. It's all light teasing compared to earlier, but it helps ease the tension some. Desmond decides to call it a night after that, and heads off to bed, Shaun doing the same after an hour of reading.

As he settles in, he thinks about the progress made over a few simple days. The hood, the jess, the confrontation... all part of a plan that Shaun hopes can save Desmond in some ways, even if it costs him in others. He thinks back to his first hawk and sighs, pulling his glasses off and setting them on the nightstand. Tomorrow he'll try to think of other things he can do to help around, maybe have Rebecca hood Desmond during his Bleeding instead of himself, in case the time should ever come when he's not around to do it and Desmond loses his mind.

He starts dozing not long after that, but just when he reaches the warmth of sleep something brushes against him, startling him awake. It doesn't take a genius to figure out who it is, especially once Desmond tucks his head under Shaun's chin and tries to get closer without incurring Shaun's wrath. He doesn't say anything, but then again he doesn't have to - Shaun's heard him scream in the middle of the night often enough to piece together what he's looking for. So he simply goes for the most obvious route. "Do you want the hood on, Desmond?"

The other man stills, and its just like the first day all over again. Then, tentatively, he nods. Shaun reaches over him, and opens the drawer, not even bothering to turn on the light as he slips the hood over Desmond's head, tying the knots, keeping them tight enough to prevent it from slipping, but loose enough so he can still move it around if it gets uncomfortable. Shaun tries not to think of the slightly animal-like sound Desmond makes once its on, and instead says, "Wake me up if you start sweating in it, okay?"

They don't talk after that, Shaun not even bothering to complain when Desmond stays in the circle of his arms, head tucked underneath his chin, arms draped over his sides in a light embrace. It feels nice, the historian thinks as he drifts off again, to have a little show of trust like this pop up now and again. Maybe he can get Desmond to do it more often.

Maybe.


End file.
